


contagious virtue

by havisham



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Anthony & Benedict Share 1 Braincell, Anthony Bridgerton is a messy bitch who loves drama, Bisexual Male Character, Complicated Relationships, Family Feels, Feelings Realization, Gap Filler, Implied/Referenced Incest, In-Universe RPF, Jealousy, Multi, Poetry, Rakes in both the Regency sense and also the Sideshow Bob sense, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28621701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: Anthony Bridgerton fucks around and finds out.
Relationships: Anthony Bridgerton & Benedict Bridgerton, Anthony Bridgerton/Original Character(s), Simon Basset/Anthony Bridgerton/Daphne Bridgerton
Comments: 26
Kudos: 75





	1. Family Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> Ratings and tags may change! We'll figure it out with Anthony.

Anthony Bridgerton dreaded the time when he would be expected to fully assume the mantle of the Bridgerton patriarch — the day when his mother was dead and everyone, from already-weary Benedict to little Hyacinth, would look to him for guidance. 

Anthony knew he could not do it. 

The thought of it buzzed in his mind with the force of a thousand wings. He dreamed about the day. He distracted himself — with drink, with games, with Siena — but always the inevitable gnawed at him like a dog with a bone.

He was the opposite of Simon — essentially stable, though troubled by his past. No, Anthony was essentially unstable, but chained securely into place by the bonds of family and society. It was only Daphne who saw him truly, and it was Daphne, newly empowered by her position as a married woman, who told him that he would have to change.

The two of them were the first of their numerous family to rise this morning, and thus were breakfasting together— it had been a common enough occurrence before Daphne’s marriage. The servants had even set out the foods the two of them especially liked.

Simon was not with them, having been called away back to Clyvedon with an emergency, and it was determined that Daphne was too far gone with child to accompany him. 

The couple had parted with sickening vows of love and affection — it was a scene out of the most sentimental novel Anthony could have ever imagined. Six months ago, he would have never expected his wildest friend from school to clutch at his sister’s delicate white hand like it was part of the True Cross. 

But such was life — everything changed. Simon had changed. Daphne had certainly changed. And apparently Anthony would have to change as well. 

“Change!” Anthony exclaimed, disbelievingly. “Sister, did you choose to stay on in London to torment me? How can I change when I am already perfect?”

To his surprize, she did not give this playful joke even a single laugh. She merely creased the corners of her mouth in a smile that could not be called polite so much as not outwardly hostile. “You will not acknowledge it, then.” 

“Acknowledge what? I have already promised Mother that by the end of next season, I will have married the most respectable maiden in England. She can rest easy on that count and so can you. My future wife will see to all of my other defects— of which I still say there are none.” 

“But do you not see!” Daphne said with unexpected passion, almost upsetting the marmalade pot. 

“What do I not see?” Anthony said, pulling the marmalade pot away from Daphne’s throwing range. He was fond of this batch; it was the perfect balance of tartness and sweetness. 

“You must work first on yourself before you are married, Brother.” Daphne sighed, shaking her head. “If you expect your poor wife to make sense of you, I fear neither of you will have a happy marriage.” 

Anthony opened his mouth and closed it again. He simply could not understand what she meant by any of that. 

*

There was a certain time, very long ago, Anthony had supposed himself a little in love with Simon Basset.

It was hard not to notice Simon’s strength and beauty, though Anthony was not exactly that way inclined. Simon, though, was very free with his affections — it all stemmed from his conviction that he would never marry — and after a few delightfully fraught interactions with him in their university days, Anthony was forced to concede his point. Such a determined slut could never find satisfaction in the marriage bed. 

Even now, Anthony would catch himself glancing over to Daphne and wondering if his sister knew how very good her dear husband was with his tongue. 

Not that it was his place to tell her, by God! Anthony would never betray either Simon or Daphne in that way. He would not.

The noise was rising around him; Hyacinth and Gregory were fighting over whatever it was. He considered retreating back to his study — the news was dull when Lady Whistledown was out of town — but then the footman came with the letters. Among the notes and visiting cards, there was a letter from Colin. 

All Bridgertons present — and it was all of them except for Benedict, who was absenting himself more and more from the family home, for reasons that Anthony could not believe were improving — crowded around him and begged him to read out the letter. Anthony obliged them, describing Colin’s difficulties sailing to Greece. Every Cicerone he encountered wished to redirect his travels back to Italy instead. Supposedly, the situation in Greece was rather troubled. Anthony thought vaguely that perhaps he ought to have known this, but the troubles with Colin and the Thompson girl had distracted them all. 

For now, Colin was stymied in Rome and had taken up with a young poet there. Colin had included some lines from his new friend in his letter, and the Bridgertons contemplated their beauty but briefly, as a caller came in to visit Violet.

Anthony was obliged to write a letter back to Colin, warning him not to be too taken with his literary friend — there were bits of Colin’s letter that disturbed him, such as the poet not being able to pay for his lodgings and immediately accepting Colin’s good-hearted offer of protection. A man who could not pay his own debts could not be depended on, Anthony wrote, even as he knew his very good advice would be in vain… 

Such was the fate of an older brother — always sensible, always ignored!

With that in mind, Anthony sent off his letter and went to dress for another stimulating evening at the club. As he was leaving, however, he spotted his sister, Eloise, looking distinctly suspicious as she prepared to go out as well. That was odd, for Anthony knew that the Featheringtons had left for the country and Eloise had no other intimate friend other than Penelope Featherington. Could she have… formed an unsuitable attachment? _Eloise?_

“Dear Sister,” said Anthony, stepping smoothly behind her and making her start. Eloise had a deadly glare, much harsher than even Daphne in a temper, but Anthony was unaffected. He smiled the bland smile of the innocent at her. “You are going out?” 

“I am,” she said, sticking out her chin for a moment, before thinking better of it. “I am… going to buy some ribbons.” 

“Our house is empty of ribbons?” Anthony asked, concerned. 

“No… Oh!” Eloise touched her forehead with a forced laugh. The stage had truly lost a star in Eloise Bridgerton, Anthony thought. Her acting was the most natural in the world. “I forgot — er, I promised Benedict that I would go to Cropson’s and pick up a book for him. A book of sermons. He wishes to become more pious, it seems.” 

“That doesn’t sound like him,” Anthony said doubtfully. 

“No, it doesn’t,” Eloise agreed with a smile. 

“Well, I’m about to head off that way. Give me the name of the book and I will pick it up for him,” Anthony said. “And then you may go off to do whatever mysterious task you have for yourself.” 

Eloise’s face brightened. She looked through her notebook before she pulled out a scrap of paper and handed it over to Anthony. Anthony, surprized that it was in fact a real book — a _Reverend Seale’s Book of Sermons_ — thanked her for it. 

Before they parted for the evening, he stopped her one more time and asked, earnestly, “Eloise, you truly are not going away to meet a lover, are you?” 

Eloise pulled a face of vivid disgust. “Never in the world.” 

And Anthony believed her — at least for now. 

*

Cropson’s Booksellers was not the most prominent bookshop in town, nor the one most likely to be patronized by the _ton_ — in truth, it was a rather grubby little storefront and the clientele seemed to be exclusively made of shifty-eyed gentlemen. It was located several streets away from Anthony’s club, however, so it was no matter to stop the carriage and have the footman go inside and fetch the book. 

Or so Anthony thought — until the footman came out again, empty-handed. “They wouldn’t sell it to me, sir,” said John worriedly. “Not even when I said it was for your lordship.” 

“What possible reason could there be not to sell you a book of sermons?” Anthony declared as he gestured to John to open the carriage door. “Well, we will soon see what this is all about.”

The air inside Cropson’s was thick with dust and the malodorous scent of rotting books. Anthony’s nose and throat threatened immediately to close up. Thus, his expression when he approached the desk where the clerk was — not Mr. Cropson himself, who was long dead — was quite thunderous. The clerk was reading — what else? A old copy of Whistledown. He did not look up when Anthony cleared his throat. 

When Anthony did it again, the insolent youth finally lifted his eyes and asked in a voice thick with reluctance and loathing, “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I’m to buy a book of sermons. _Reverend Seale’s Book of Sermons_. Do you have it? If not, can you order it?”

The young man blinked slowly, though it seemed to Anthony that his eyes sharpened under his sleepy gaze. “You want Seale’s?” 

“That is what I said,” Anthony replied impatiently. 

“Usually people — begging your pardon, your lordship — usually people of your rank don’t bother with Seale’s.”

Anthony looked at him. It seemed to him that the young man had started to sweat. What could possibly be so strange about this book of sermons? “I absolutely insist you give me that book,” he said softly. “And if you attempt to switch it out with another book, rest assured I will know and punish you accordingly.” 

The young man nodded and opened the half-door that barred the desk and the back of the store to the front. “If you’d please come with me, sir, I’ll show you where we keep it and then you’ll see there’s no mistake.”

Wondering what in the world he had gotten himself into, Anthony followed the clerk to the back of the store and down a set of narrow, shaking stairs to a vault in the cellar. Once opened — Anthony could hardly breathe from the rush of stale air that came to greet him — the clerk reached out and plucked a slim red-covered book from one of the shelves. He gave it to Anthony to look over. On the spine of the book it said SEALE — SERMONS. 

Acutely aware of the amount of time he had thus far invested in this venture, Anthony looked over the book quickly and closed it. “All right,” he said, handing it back to the clerk. “Wrap it, I’ll take it.”

The clerk bowed and scraped and, by the time Anthony had finally quit the suffocating environs of Cropson’s, he promised himself faithfully that he would never have to go back. 

As for the brown paper-wrapped book that he had managed to obtain at such cost to himself, Anthony forgot all about it, until that night when he was settled into bed and found the package sitting on his nightstand. 

Thinking that his bed would not be a good fit for the perusing of old sermons, Anthony threw a robe over himself and shuffled over to the library and unwrapped the book package. 

Anthony opened the book and began to read. The contents were deeply shocking to him, for they were not sermons at all, or rather they _were_ sermons, but not ones that preached piety and obedience to God. 

“Oh, this is _obscene_!” Anthony said aloud, gripping at his extremities. 

He read on about a certain Lord and Lady Townbridge, whose passion for each other could not be constrained by societal norms. There was something about a marital act with relation to a towering jelly that made Anthony quite faint. And then — something about a hedge maze, that made something in Anthony ache for Siena. They had wasted so much time not making love outdoors — 

Anyway, Anthony kept reading the book of sermons well into the morning. He did not stop until it had finished, and he had as well, several times over. 

The next day, Anthony summoned Eloise to his study in a state of high dungeon. He stared at his brother and sister as they shuffled into the room, clearly not sure what to expect.

“Eloise,” Anthony said, finally, “I must say, your choice in reading material quite surprized me. The reason I have not asked Mama to be present for this meeting is merely to spare you. This book is _not_ ”— Anthony picked up the book and waved it around — “appropriate reading material for a young girl such as yourself.”

“What are you talking about?” Eloise said. “What book?”

“The one you wanted to get from Cropson’s,” Anthony said, exasperated. 

“Oh! That book. What’s wrong with it?” Eloise said, taking a chair opposite of Anthony and pulling it closer. She really thought he would tell her! The cheek! 

“Never mind about that,” Anthony blustered. “How did you learn about its existence? Was it really meant for Benedict? Where is Benedict, by the way? I haven’t seen him in a week.”

“I — I don’t know where Benedict is,” Eloise said. “He’s been out and about lately. I suppose he has a new lover since Madame Delacroix has gone abroad.”

“What about the book?” Anthony said quickly. He did not want to think about Genevieve Delacroix for as long as he lived. It was difficult enough to pay invoices from her. The fact that his own brother would choose to make Siena’s neighbor and friend his lover was a source of consternation for him, for reasons he did not wish to closely examine. 

“The book — ah, well, if you _must_ know, I overheard Lady Danbury saying something about it during Daphne’s ball. She said that Lady Whistledown was not the first to do such a thing — there was an instance of it in the last generation.”

“My God!” Anthony exclaimed. “You mean to say those lewd creatures are based on real people?” 

A sudden, searing thought tore through him, about a certain chapter that he had well-nigh memorized. He gasped, and said quietly to himself, “Lord and Lady Townbridge… My God. ”

“Brother, you’ve read the thing? We’re in it?” Eloise cried out excitedly. But Anthony gathered himself up and told her to go away and to never eavesdrop on Lady Danbury again. 

*

Daphne sent word from Hastings House that Simon had returned to London, which whipped up considerable excitement in the Bridgerton household. But then there was no further news. Daphne and Simon had simply disappeared into mists of matrimonial bliss. 

It was most vexing, and even Violet noted it, after the second time Daphne sent a note to say she and the Duke would not be able to come to supper.

“Why in the world are they in town if they will not dine with us?” Anthony vented for the second time. Violet gave a gentle cough. 

“We must be sensitive to what they are seeking to do, my dear,” said Violet, over the roar of the children fighting. “They are building a family of their own.”

“But they already have a family,” Anthony said stubbornly. “ _Us_!”

“My God, Anthony, why are you pretending not to understand the obvious?” asked Benedict. Though he had finally appeared for dinner, Benedict had clearly had a time of it recently. There were dark circles under his eyes and his color was high. 

Anthony turned on him with expected viciousness. “You, sir, should not speak out of turn. Mama, do you see that your second son is becoming a rake? His actions will bring shame on our house sooner or later.”

“You? Calling me a rake?” Benedict laughed. “That’s the funniest thing in the world. Who brought me to my first bro—”

“Benedict! There are children present,” said Violet reprovingly. And indeed, Gregory, Hyacinth and Francesca were all quietly listening to every word they said. Benedict visibly reined himself in, though he looked unhappy about it.

“I was a rake,” Anthony conceded, “but no longer! I am a retired rake and, I daresay, I am a reformed one. I hope you should be one too, Benedict. Loose morals lead only to broken hearts, eventually.”

“Spare me the sermons,” said Benedict, a phase that now only alarmed Anthony further. But dinner had already been unpleasant and so he said nothing. By the combined efforts of Violet and Eloise, the conversation shifted over to the issue of Queen Charlotte’s small dogs and whether that particular breed was indeed disposed naturally towards evil. 


	2. Love & Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony hashes things out with Benedict, tastes forbidden love & meets two adventurers.

Anthony requested Benedict’s presence in his study after dinner, and to his quiet relief, his brother appeared when and where he was required. 

“I must apologize,” Anthony said as soon as Benedict came through the door. He leaned against his father’s chair and took a deep breath. “I was too harsh with you. I only — I do not wish to see you commit the mistakes I have made.” 

Benedict, standing at attention at the door, nodded. “You are… kind to admit it.” 

“Will you not confide in me anymore?” Anthony asked him coaxingly, gesturing to the seat opposite him. He smiled. “Once, you would share your every thought with me, whether or not I wanted you to or not!” 

“I really have nothing to confess,” Benedict said, taking a seat. He still seemed awkward, and Anthony wondered what had brought this distance between them. In truth, in the past, he had never had to make much of an _effort_ to reach out to Benedict. Benedict was always there, the ever dependable presence at his back. 

Anthony sighed and got up from his chair. He poured himself a drink and asked if Benedict wanted one too. His brother assented. Anthony brought it to him and then leaned against the desk, assessing the situation. 

Benedict had changed in the last few months. Could it be that he was more saddened by Madame Delacroix’s departure than he let on? He had seemed quite sanguine about the whole thing, as far as Anthony could tell. But perhaps Benedict had finally learned how to hide his heart. 

“Benedict, I begin to think you are actually quite heartless,” Anthony said, taking a judicious sip of whiskey. Benedict laughed aloud at this, but his amusement fled when he realized his brother was being quite serious.

“I? Heartless? I can see that accusation coming from Daphne — not Eloise, we understand each other — but for _you_ to say it —”

“We’re not speaking of me, we’re speaking of _you_ ,” Anthony said. “The rumors say that you are in love.” 

“No,” Benedict said with a frown. “I’m not in love.”

“Then you are not saddened by the absence of your lover,” Anthony guessed.

“I have no reason to be jealous of Genevieve or her attention. It is a mutual dalliance; we owe each other nothing.”

“Oh? How modern of you,” Anthony said. He did not understand the concept of not falling into emotional entanglements as soon as one fell into physical ones. Siena had been his most intense affair, but he’d fallen for all of them — the scorn and heartbreak that followed was only natural. 

“All right,” Anthony said slowly. “Then what is the reason for your absence from home? Your avoidance of your family? Those dark circles under your eyes? It’s worrisome. Are you sickening?”

“I’m perfectly healthy,” Benedict said impatiently. He hesitated and said, in a low tone, “If I tell you, you must promise not to laugh at me.”

Anthony felt a quiver of anticipation run through him. He feared that he could not be held to such a promise, but he ignored that fear. Earnestly, he told Benedict he would. 

After much hesitation, Benedict said,“I have been learning — a trade.” 

“What!” Anthony said, aghast. Benedict had thus far utterly declined to choose any sort of employment that was available for a second son — either in the law, the military or the church. That was amenable to Anthony — he preferred the family to stay together. 

Besides, everyone expected Benedict to marry well — perhaps to a rich young lady who had no brother or other male relations — but this was such a strange turn that Anthony could not imagine it.

“What is it? What do you want to do?”

“I’m learning to paint from Sir Henry Granville and I think I'm doing rather well,” Benedict confessed in a rush of embarrassed pride. Anthony stared at him for a moment, astonished.

“You know I fagged for Granville in school,” Anthony said at last. 

Benedict raised a brow. “I didn’t know, he never mentioned it.”

“Well, perhaps I was forgettable,” Anthony said with a smile. He knew this to be a lie. “I liked _him_ well enough — he wasn’t a tyrant or unreasonable in his demands.”

“Mmm,” Benedict said. He had not been so fortunate, but that was neither here nor there. 

Anthony barreled on. “But I don’t like his paintings though. They’re quite lifeless.”

“I thought so too, but I made the mistake of telling him so.”

Anthony looked at his younger brother — _really_ looked at him. He could barely remember a time when he hadn’t had Benedict beside him — their childhoods had been intertwined. In many ways, Anthony considered Benedict a sort of extension of himself. He could be silly and easy-going in ways that Anthony could not. Indeed, serious emotions troubled Benedict more than sorrow did. 

“Are you… Benedict, dear, are you in love with Granville? He encourages it, you know.”

Benedict’s face grew brick-red. “I am not! Granville is married and has a lover that he’s quite devoted to. Lord Wetherby —”

“Lord Wetherby, hm,” Anthony mused. “I had my eye on him for Eloise but — nevermind.”

“You will not use this information against them, will you?” Benedict asked, anxiously. “Granville told me in confidence. He is my friend now as well as my master.”

“I would never give out anyone’s secrets — not when I have my own to protect,” Anthony said seriously. He thought about what he could do to turn this conversation from its serious and quite sad bent, and remembered the book of sermons. 

“Moving swiftly on — do you want to see something appalling?” he asked Benedict. 

“Of course,” Benedict replied. And so Anthony brought out the book and the brothers pored over it together. Anthony enjoyed the various expressions that flashed across Benedict’s face. At some antic described in unloosing a young lady’s round gown, Benedict put down the book and stared deeply into Anthony’s eyes. 

“What in the world did you put in front of my eyes, Brother?” 

Anthony sprang up and stretched. “Don’t get missish with me, sir! I know you have seen worse. Probably done worse too.” 

“Well, yes, but never together with you…” 

“Hm,” Anthony said. “Perhaps that’s so. But as for what it is — it is a work of pornographic genius, written by a far ruder Whistledown. Do you recognize some of these characters?”

“Lord and Lady Townbridge… Lady Birdstroke… Queen Hanovia … These names do not hide much. Was the writer imprisoned? They ought to have been.” 

“I’ve no idea,” Anthony confessed. “Eloise overhead Lady Danbury talking about it and had no idea what it could be. Naturally you mustn’t enlighten her.” 

“I won’t,” Benedict said. He winced and clutched at his head. “Brother, the images you have put in my head…” 

“Oh, that is nothing,” Anthony said confidently. “Look at the date on the frontispiece. A year before I was born, 1782. London was awash with French seducers, and yet our English forebearers managed to make quite a showing of it. It’s inspiring, in a way.” 

“In what way?” 

“In a strange way,” Anthony admitted. “Well, Benedict, I will congratulate you on finding a purpose in life. People in our stations certainly do not require such a thing, but I find it admirable that you do.” 

“You are an utter ass,” Benedict said, his eyes glimmering with their accustomed humor. Anthony winked at him and all was well again.

*

When Simon and Daphne came back into their circle again, things were noticeably awkward, for they had been so long away — apparently scrubbing Hastings House clean of any presence of the old duke, and renovating besides. 

Conversation at dinner was divided between the Bridgertons’ plans to remove to the country the next day and talk of the renovations of Hastings House. Daphne described a room in the southwest of the house that had not been aired since the last duchess had been in possession. The whole thing seemed as though she had just been called away and would return shortly — the table had even been set for tea, and an open book lay on the chair. 

“An eerie sight, no doubt,” Anthony said, cutting up a piece of lamb. 

“It’s in a very happy situation in the house, very sunny,” Daphne said, glancing over to Simon. “We have great plans to make it fresh and new again.” 

“Everything in Hastings House feels fresh and new thanks to Daphne,” said Simon, his large dark eyes filled with love. Violet sighed aloud as Daphne blushed prettily. Anthony began to chew his lamb much more aggressively after that. 

When dinner was over, the ladies departed to the parlor and Anthony turned the duties of hosting over to Benedict, citing some urgent letters he needed to write before they were to depart to the country. 

“You understand, Hastings, of course,” Anthony said, with a barely a look at his old friend. Simon gave a vague assent, but his eyes and manner were sharp. He had taken offense, but Anthony did not care. 

*

Anthony was good as his word — he kept to his study and to his letters. He brooded. He sulked. He read another of Colin’s letters, which described how his poet friend, Millais, had quit Rome at the same time Colin had set off for Athens. All debts had been settled — mostly by Colin himself. 

_I have told Millais that he can visit Bridgerton House if he should be in London_ , wrote sweet foolish Colin. Who had taught him to always see the good in people and give them such chances? Certainly not Anthony. This poet, Millais, was probably a blackguard. With luck, they would not be in town when he made his visit. 

One simply couldn’t reason with poets, Anthony thought when he heard a soft knock at the door. He made a noise of displeasure and said, “Thank you, I don’t need anything!” 

He heard Daphne’s steps walking away, and felt wretched. Nonetheless, he was resolved to hold himself back. He had gone too far with the two of them and he needed this lesson, for all that he longed to fly down the hall and see how she was faring — perhaps even speak to her in private, away from both Violet and Simon. 

He waited a few moments and decided that, really, such a short chat would do no harm. It was true that Daphne was no longer his responsibility, but she was still his sister. She should be well-settled and happy. He ought to know. 

As soon as Anthony opened the door, he was greeted with a wholly unwelcome and yet _intensely_ desired sight — Simon Basset standing in front of his door, looking distinctly unimpressed. 

“The fact that you escaped after dinner, Bridgerton, is the rudest thing I have ever seen you do, and that includes the time when you let a pig into the dean’s office.” 

“I was feeling ill,” Anthony protested. “I mean, I had letters to write.” 

“Malingerer,” Simon said, striding into the room. “You can’t even remember your excuses.” 

Anthony looked down the hall, but Daphne was nowhere in sight. He sighed and called for the footman to bring them something to drink. That something turned out to be drinking chocolate — Simon’s favorite, though it was mostly reserved for the morning. Nonetheless, blowing at the steam and waiting for it to get cool enough to drink gave both of them plenty of time to simply sit in silence. 

“My brother, Colin, was caught in an intrigue with a poet,” Anthony said, casting around for a subject. He settled for family gossip, for that was the only thing that was never in short supply among the Bridgertons. 

“Really? He said nothing about it during dinner,” Simon said. 

“No, that’s Benedict. Colin is the one currently on the Grand Tour. He found this character in Rome and was enthralled by him completely. But now, luckily for him, Colin is off to Athens and that man Millais is coming to London.” 

“Millais? I think I have heard of that name but I don’t remember anything else,” Simon mused. He took a sip of his chocolate and smiled. It was a delightful smile and Anthony found himself staring at his new brother-in-law for what was perhaps an inordinate amount of time. 

“Nevermind about him,” Anthony said, shaking his head sharply. He could not keep staring at Simon, and so he resolved to stare at the fire instead. “How has married life been treating you, old man? It seems that you and Daphne have settled in admirably since the ball.” 

“We have,” Simon confirmed. “It is strange how easy things are since we have started talking to each other, telling each other how we feel and what we expect from one another. I have never had such a relationship before.” 

“Well, that is because you are an only child,” Anthony said carelessly. “All of us grew up talking and talking. Not a moment of silence, not ever.” 

“Talking is all well and good,” Simon said. “But do you listen?” 

“I do not need to listen,” Anthony replied. “I am the head of this house. They are all obliged to listen to me.” 

“This is what Daphne meant when she said you were woefully unprepared for matrimony,” Simon said, putting down his chocolate cup. 

“The two of you talk about me?” Anthony asked, a little taken back. 

“Of course, we speak about everything,” Simon said. “As I have just said. You truly do not listen.” 

“Imagine what would have happened if I had won that duel,” Anthony said, feeling his cheeks grow warm. “Daphne would have been entirely bereft. Her dialogues would become monologues.” 

Simon sighed. “You believe you would have succeeded in killing me?” 

“Of course,” Anthony replied, offended. “There is no doubt about it. I would have aimed for your heart while you shot to the air. That is the difference between us.” 

“Would you regret it, killing me?” 

“Every day,” Anthony said. “But I still would have done it. Your ghost would haunt me until I died.” 

“The fact that you think I would haunt you and not the woman that I love astonishes but does not surprize me, Bridgerton,” Simon said. “I am glad that it did not come to that.” 

“I am too,” Anthony said. He was so _very_ glad that Simon was alive and he was not a fugitive. Words could not convey the extent of his relief. 

“It’ll happen to you, I am sure,” Simon said, his voice low and certain. “You will experience the perfect agony of love. It will change you most of all, I think.” 

“I do not want to be changed,” Anthony said, sitting up straight. He looked at Simon directly and said, his voice shaking a little, “I do not think you understand how very jealous I am of the two of you, even as I know I do not possess either of you. If I could, I would inject myself in between you for a moment — just to experience this _perfect agony_ you speak of.”

Simon was standing almost instantly. Anthony tensed, ready to fight Simon again. But the moment his hands touched Anthony’s face, it was cool and soothing. Immediately disarming. Anthony’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, before he remembered himself. 

With a wry smile, he said, “You _may_ hit me if you like.” 

“No,” Simon said, relinquishing his hold. “You know I would do nothing without her consent.” 

“I know,” Anthony said wearily. “I would not wish for you to do so.” 

*

That night, Anthony had a very familiar dream. He was dallying with Siena in the backstage of the opera house. His lips stung with the force of her kisses. He felt none of the longing or regret he knew in waking life. In the dream, he felt only the joy of her body against his, the rightness of it —

“Oh, dearest girl,” Anthony breathed as he pulled out. He looked down at her and found that she was not Siena at all. Instead, it was Daphne who was looking at him. The expression on her face was one that Anthony had never seen before. 

He was choking on what he could possibly say to save himself when he felt a strong hand grasp his shoulder. He turned his head to see Simon. Anthony opened his mouth to beg for forgiveness when he was kissed so thoroughly that his breath was caught. 

Perfect agony was right — Anthony came with a groan. He was awake and in an embarrassing state, as if he was a boy of Gregory’s age and not a man nearly one and thirty.

*

The next day, a stranger arrived on the steps of Bridgerton House. He was the most handsome man Anthony had ever seen — he was dark-skinned and with curly, black hair, and with a face of delicate yet manly beauty. 

His gaze was like a blow. Anthony took a step back, despite himself. 

“Sir, you are exactly as your brother described,” said the stranger.

“You are Millais?” Anthony said. 

He bowed. “Sir Arthur Millais, at your service.” 

Like an idiot, Anthony blurted out, “Oh, you have an A-name as well.” 

Millais gave him a bashful yet winning smile. “You may blame my parents for that. I am the eldest of nine.” 

“So am I!” Anthony said. “Well, of eight.”

“Arthur, will you not introduce me?” asked a sweet, feminine voice. A petite young woman, fair-skinned and with vividly red hair, stepped lightly towards them. 

“Forgive me, my love. Lord Bridgerton, this is my wife, Fenella.” 

“Extremely delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Millais,” said Anthony, kissing Fenella’s hand. He looked at the two of them, both so lovely to look at that he did not know which of them should rightfully attract his interest more. He saw immediately the solution to his current frustrations. “Would the two of you like to escape to the country?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that I probably won't be able to wrap this up in another chapter, so we'll have to settle for an unknown number of chapters. Also, I've bumped the rating up in the expectation that fucking around, finding out might lead to explicit results. 
> 
> I imagine Millais is played by Sendhil Ramamurthy and Fenella by Jessica Chastain, but we can't afford her so another redhead actress with amazing bone structure. 
> 
> I've also been watching a lot _Escape to the Country_ and am just waiting for my chance to live in a clearly haunted, renovated mill in Shropshire or wherever...


	3. Hospitality Towards a Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be our guest!

The Bridgertons traveled with a great deal of fuss — there was simply no helping it, with a family so large as theirs. There were two carriages given over for the transportation of the family — and now their two guests — and another for the luggage. 

The first carriage contained Anthony, Violet, Hyacinth and Sir Arthur and his wife, while the second carried Benedict, Eloise, Gregory and Mrs. Varley. 

“Is Lady Bridgerton not traveling with us?” asked Lady Millais brightly — she insisted on going by Fenella — when the conversation about the various sights and sounds of the journey had petered out. 

“She is beside me,” Anthony answered. “Mama, are you sleeping?”

Violet gave Anthony a rather freezing look. She was still vexed at his sudden invitation to the poet and his wife, without even consulting her. But such an expression was a mere flicker on her face, meant for those who knew her best. Outwardly, Violet smiled and said, “Yes, I’m afraid I am but a dowager. Anthony is yet to wed.” 

“Ah,” said Sir Arthur— who likewise insisted on being called just Arthur — and he exchanged a quick glance with his wife. “Dear Colin had mentioned that his eldest sibling was recently married…”

“His eldest _sister_ ,” Anthony said, with a great deal of pleasure. “Our sister Daphne was recently married to the Duke of Hastings.”

“To have such high connections!” Fenella exclaimed. “I feel quite ashamed to breath the same air as you.”

“That’s a silly thing to say,” said Hyacinth, who had just woken up from a nap. She took meekly her mother’s scolding for interjecting in adult conversation, but none of the Bridgertons contradicted her. 

“You should not think of us as being altogether hidebound and socially conservative — at least in our choice of spouse,” Anthony assured them. “My parents have always encouraged us to marry for love, whether it be a duchess or a cheesemonger’s daughter.”

“What a charming spirit of romance,” Arthur exclaimed. “I will have to write a poem about it. Fenella and I are a love match as well.” 

“It was a marriage of true minds,” said Fenella, her hand pressed against her heart. Anthony’s gaze lingered there. 

“Let us hope there are no impediments,” he murmured, feeling exceedingly clever. 

*

For Anthony, Audrey Hall was essentially incomplete, a place that had a hole where the heart should be. His father had loved the place — had poured much of his energy into reviving it. Anthony was not so inclined towards renovation or, indeed, revolution. As long as the place was habitable, he was mostly content. 

Perhaps, in the future, if he should happen to marry someone who would love the place as it should be loved, as his father had loved it — 

But that was neither here nor there. Both Arthur and Fenella exclaimed over the beauty of the park and the happy situation of the house, how the late afternoon sun gave a warm glow to the stone. 

“The present hall was built in Queen Anne’s time, but there are portions of it that are much older. It is exceedingly haunted, of course, but we don’t tell the children,” Anthony said with a wink towards Hyacinth, who gave him a conspiratorial grin back. 

Gregory, everyone knew, was exceedingly afraid of ghosts, but Hyacinth was quite the opposite. 

“What sort of ghosts are there?” asked Arthur eagerly. Anthony and Hyacinth listed them off. 

“Well, there’s a White Lady who walks down the chalk path towards the lower gardens —”

“And a devilish monk wanders the halls in the East Wing. He scratches the door when you’ve stayed up too long.” 

“Finally, a phantom coach with a headless horseman is said to come down the lane whenever the lord of the manor is going to die.”

“No, that one isn’t true,” Anthony said with authority. He remembered that story well, had wracked his mind over it when he was younger. “No such thing came for Father.” 

Hyacinth drooped like a flower. Anthony reached out and chucked her chin and she smiled, despite herself, and he smiled back. 

The carriage lurched to a stop. They were home.

*

Life in the country had patterns of its own. The family and guests, when settled, were able to pursue their own country pleasures — partaking in the delights of Kent, visiting neighbors and other wholesome activities.

Anthony could not wholly give himself over to the pleasure of garden parties or visits from the local parson. His attention was pulled ever hither and thither — he had an estate to maintain. Or rather, he had an estate to enquire about, that others maintained. 

His bailiff was a blunt, honest-seeming man, and the tenants he spoke to seemed to have no major complaints. However, at the end of the day, Anthony had the awkward feeling of being an intruder, a stranger in a strange land. His father had been friendly with them all, and the older people still spoke of him fondly. 

Anthony, however, was not his father.

With such disheartening thoughts on his mind, Anthony returned from a meeting and luncheon with the bailiff and the prominent farmers. He had been presented with a large wheel of very good cheese that even the most haughty of the _ton_ would not disdain if they were in their senses. As the hedges thinned out into gentle parkland, a sudden movement in the bushes attracted his attention. Was it a fox? Or something bigger?

Anthony called for the coachman to stop and let him investigate. Once he had done so, Anthony saw a familiar sight — his youngest brother, Gregory — emerge from the wilderness. The boy was kitted out as a warrior of old with a bow and arrows, and with crushed blackberries smeared across his face to act as the woad. 

“Gregory, what on Earth are you doing?” Anthony asked.

“I’m hunting,” said the boy, as if it was obvious. “Do you want to come?”

After a moment of hesitation at all his duties yet undone, Anthony assented. He sent the coachman on ahead with instructions on the disposal of the cheese. Then he followed Gregory into the woods of Aubrey Hall.

Often enough when he and Benedict were growing up, they would haunt the woods in the summertime, but it occurred to Anthony that he had never wondered if or how Gregory would manage it. Did he go abroad all alone? That could not be safe — the Bridgertons had come down to Aubrey Hall much less often since the death of their father. Gregory could not be as familiar with the woods as he and Benedict, and later Colin, had been. 

What a melancholy position, to have so many brothers and yet have none of them to play with! As Anthony followed Gregory’s lead through the woods, he wondered if he and Violet should find suitable companions for Gregory. The parson had only girls. Lord Roofe, their closest neighbor, had a son, but the lad was closer to Eloise’s age than Gregory’s. The lawyer in the village, Mr. Ashworth, had a boy — a nephew he was apprenticing. Perhaps he would be —

“Halt!” Gregory said sharply, and Anthony did. There was a break in the woods and in front of them was an open expanse, with a field on one side and a pond on the other. On the shores of the pond was a small folly in the shape of a Grecian temple that a moddish Bridgerton ancestor had put up, a century ago. 

“There he is, the Roman,” Gregory said, pointing to a figure laying odalisque in the shade of the folly. It was Sir Arthur Millais and his nose was buried under the pages of a book. 

“Don’t murder him,” Anthony warned him, and let Gregory go. 

Arthur was taken all unawares by the sudden attack and pled quite eloquently for his life, in Latin far better than either Anthony’s or Gregory’s. 

“Oi! Gregory!” called a young voice from the woods. A boy, brown as a berry, waved at him frantically. 

“Allen!” Gregory said, almost dropping his bow. He immediately abandoned his quarry and took off towards the woods with a pleased whoop.

“Gregory, make sure you come home before supper! Make sure you leave enough time to wash!” Anthony shouted after him, and Gregory waved him away and was gone. 

“All this time, I thought my little brother wanted to spend time with me, but I was only needed until Allen had come,” Anthony said dramatically and sat down on the soft grass with a thump. 

“The young are quite heartless,” Arthur said, smiling. Now that Anthony had had a chance to examine him, he saw that Arthur was not as young as he had initially thought — there was grey silvering the edges of his black hair, and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth. His age must have been somewhere in between Anthony’s and Violet’s, Anthony thought. 

Anthony blinked. He had been staring too long. Sheepishly, he apologized. The sun was too strong now, even in the shade. He asked what Arthur was reading. Somewhat shamefacedly, Arthur admitted that he was working on his own poetry.

“May I read it?” Anthony asked. “If it’s no bother.”

“Not at all,” Arthur said, giving him the book. Anthony read the poem that he had been drafting, and something in the way the sentences were crafted felt familiar to him, though he could not quite put a finger on exactly why. 

“Do you write prose as well as verse?” he asked, giving the book back to Arthur. 

“I did when I was younger,” said Arthur. “Not so very much now.” 

“Hm,” Anthony said. He stood up and stretched. “Do you wish me to show you around the folly?” They both looked over to the folly, which was about the size of a small room in Aubrey Hall. 

Anthony smiled. “Gentleman’s choice, of course.” 

“Of course,” Arthur replied, taking up Anthony’s offer. They toured the inside of the folly. Arthur was appreciative and attentive, even on his knees. If Anthony closed his eyes, he could pretend the curly hair underneath his fingers belonged to someone else. Arthur’s mouth could belong to —

“ _Simon_ ,” Anthony gasped out and bit his tongue. Something flared in Arthur’s eyes and Anthony was lost. 

*

Some days later, Anthony received a letter from Daphne. The racket around him was immense, making it impossible to concentrate. Francesca was trying her hand at the pianoforte in the library, but the instrument had not been tuned since before the death of their father. The sound of it was frightful; Anthony thought it was essential that he beg Daphne to send down a tuner for them as soon as possible. 

He found refuge in the library. It was, sadly, a rarely used space — the Bridgertons, save Eloise, were not much for reading — but he was surprized to see Fenella browsing the shelves. She jumped at the sound of Anthony closing the door behind her.

“Pardon me, I didn’t mean to startle you,” said Anthony. He tucked Daphne’s letter into his pocket. 

“You didn’t,” she assured him with a smile. “But perhaps you can help me — I’m looking for a book.”

Anthony approached her — she had climbed the ladder to reach the upper portion of the book shelves — but perhaps he had done so too quietly, because he startled her and she well-nigh fell into his arms.

“Oh dear! I am sorry,” she said breathlessly. Unconsciously, she pressed against him. Or perhaps not so unconsciously, if her flirtatious smile was a clue.

“Your husband —”

Fenella touched Anthony’s lips. “Don’t disquiet yourself. He enjoys it.” 

Anthony searched her face. She was, he thought, several years younger than himself — perhaps Benedict’s age. She was very lovely. It would be a pity to resist her.

“Perhaps he can join us next time,” he said as they settled on the sofa and his fingers wandered up her skirts. 

“Oh yes,” said Fenella with a gasp. “You are a visionary, my lord.” 

“Flatterer,” Anthony said, biting at her earlobe. “Tell me what your husband would do to you. Describe it as minutely you can.” 

*

Later, Anthony found Daphne’s letter crumpled inside the pocket of his dinner jacket, a melancholy sight indeed. “I am letting you go at last, dear sister,” he said aloud, but no one was around to hear his lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated! 
> 
> Thanks to my beta, El. <3


	4. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony loses friends and fails to influence the weather.

Anthony wondered at his lack of jealousy concerning the poet and his wife — with Siena, it had hurt physically to see her in the arms of another man — but eventually he understood. He did not love them, and so it was easy to share them. Even so, they were rather delightful companions, especially when the pretense of deference had been put away. 

Arthur had known Anthony’s father distantly, but demurred to answer most of the latter’s questions, for the span of years was great and memories distant. “Besides,” Arthur said, putting a hand on Anthony’s head, “I was too young to be of much notice in those grand soirées that your father took part in. I was an observer only.” 

“Did you write your observations down?” Anthony asked, shifting away from Arthur for a moment to kiss Fenella’s shoulder and wake her up. The three of them had slipped away to an obscure corner of the house — the rest of the family was at church. 

Truly, Anthony should have been there as well, for the sake of appearances if not for the sake of his soul. But, he decided, one Sunday out of many would not condemn him to Hell. At least, he hoped not. 

“I did, to my regret,” Arthur said. “Then I left for the Continent soon after — France, of course, just before the Deluge.”

“You have lived through history, sir,” said Anthony admiringly. “Whereas I have — what have I done? Married off a sister, one of four.”

“Have you heard of Elizabeth Hamilton and her brothers?” asked Arthur, and Anthony shook his head. Fenella yawned loudly and murmured to him that he would soon learn. 

“This is a story from almost a hundred and fifty years ago, during the reign of King Charles II. Elizabeth Hamilton was one of the chief beauties of his court — she was painted by Lely in the guise of St. Catherine. Whilst she was courted by lords, earls and dukes — even a future king paid her heed — her heart was soon captured by a newcomer at court, a French count who had been exiled by his king. Their romance seemed perfect, but once Louis XIV gave word, the count was off to Dover without her. What do you think happened?”

“I’ve no idea. What?” 

“Her brothers, Anthony and George, pursued him to Dover and asked him if he had not left something in London. Philibert de Gramont accepted both defeat and matrimony.”

“Anthony Hamilton cared for his sister, then,” Anthony said, feeling vaguely inspired. 

“He did. He wrote a worthwhile book recounting the exploits of the Restoration court to brilliant effect. His sister was a heroine in it. He never married for some reason, but it didn’t matter — they were a large family.”

“You are very knowledgeable about the history of scandal, Reverend Seale,” Anthony observed. 

Fenella laughed aloud. “How long have you been holding on to that, sir?”

“Long enough,” Anthony replied. “So, am I correct?”

“I see that I have an admirer,” Arthur said a little coldly.

Anthony thought of Whistledown and all the attempts to unmask her. He would never have such an opportunity again to ask questions he wanted to know. “Why did you do such a thing?” 

“I was very young when I wrote that, and in a fury too. Anthony Hamilton was exiled thrice for his pains, but I was only exiled once.”

“You know there is another one like you — a gossip and malcontent?”

“Lady Whistledown, you mean?” said Fenella. “Your sister Eloise seems convinced she is someone known to you.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” Anthony saidas he wriggled out of bed. He stood before them naked, and asked with a frown, “I must ask — did you behave yourself with my brother Colin? He is not as worldly as I am.”

“I did nothing with him,” said Arthur. “He is as he ever was, an innocent.”

“But you came here on the expectation of seducing me, though you thought me married?” 

“Indeed,” said Arthur. He shrugged. “I thought it would be amusing.”

“Very good,” Anthony said. He cleared his throat. “Now I think the two of you must leave, preferably before my family returns home. If that causes me to be the subject of satirical verse, I’ll accept it.”

“Oh, you are insufferable!” Fenella cried out. “I’m glad I didn’t have to pretend to want to court you.”

Arthur patted her shoulder sympathetically. “We’ll be all right, darling. We always are.”

They shared a look of pure devotion, and somehow that was what annoyed Anthony most. Another devoted couple! More people who loved each other most! It was appalling. He turned away and started to dress. 

“You don’t need to worry that we will write about you, Anthony,” said Arthur. “Poor Lord Bridgerton, whose heart can it be touched. What could be said that wasn’t completely tragic about that?” 

*

All in all, Anthony believed his parting with Sir Arthur Millais and Lady Millais was quite civil. Anthony offered them a coach to London, which they accepted. The rain, which had been threatening all day, started to pour down. Anthony could feel the eyes of curious servants peering out, but dismissed them from his mind.

He decided to go for a walk, refusing all offers of company or an umbrella. His mind was busy thinking of all that had happened in the last year or so. Of losing Siena, and almost being the cause of Simon’s death and Daphne’s ruin. Was he truly unable to love or to recognize it when he saw it? 

Growing up, he had always assumed that he would go on to have the same kind of relationship with his wife as he had seen between his father and mother — a relationship based on mutual affection and respect. He knew it was an idealized view, but truly his father had died before Anthony could ever see any of the cracks.

It was raining now, a steady downpour. It was as if the heavens themselves had descended upon Kent. Anthony felt as though he was walking through a grey cloud. He had made it through the woods and was walking towards the folly.

He took refuge there and sat on the steps leading to the interior. Anthony knew he could love — he loved his family — all of them, from his mother to daring Benedict and sweet Colin, to Eloise, who was so difficult to please, to Francesca, who was the opposite, to Gregory and Hyacinth, who had never known any father at all save for the guidance Anthony could give them. He loved each and every one of them.

But of his family, he loved Daphne and Simon the best, and those were the two he could never, ever have.

Anthony felt his eyes fill up with tears. Surprised, he touched his face. He had not wept since his father died in front of him. The rain had stopped at this point, and he looked out to the landscape girded by mist. 

Melancholic reflections had never been his forte, and so he was relieved to hear the thud of horse hooves. It was Benedict, looking for him. Anthony hailed him and asked what was the matter.

“What’s the matter?” Benedict replied. “Only that we came back from visiting the parsonage to find that we have been robbed and that you and our guests are missing!”

“They’re not missing, they received urgent news from London and had to go,” Anthony said and blinked. “We were robbed?” 

He reflected that Fenella did seem to have very quick and nimble fingers, though he could not imagine what she or Arthur could have stolen in such a short time of packing. “Was anything valuable taken?”

“A bit of silver plate,” Benedict admitted, helping Anthony up on the horse. “The punch bowl that Mama has never been fond of. I think she is most vexed because they did not take the cups as well. No longer a matched set, you see.”

“Oh well,” Anthony said, pressing his face against Benedict’s coat. “We can melt the cups down and make medals for the children to play with.”

Benedict snorted. “Very practical, Brother. I would expect no less from you.” 

“You think me a fool and I have no spirit to contradict you,”Anthony said with a sigh. 

“We must call for a doctor when we return home,” Benedict said, trying to mask his worry with humor. “You always want to contradict me, you must be sickening.”

And in fact, Anthony was ill. He collapsed almost as soon as he dismounted and had to be taken to bed, almost insensible. The distress and excitement this development whipped up was almost enough to make the household forget about the oddness of the Millaises’ departure.

Anthony himself could not comment on it. Instead, he burned and froze in turn. He remembered only occasional visits from the doctor and his mother, with flashes of his other siblings. Later, he would remember the pressure of Benedict’s hand and the uncertain timbre of Eloise’s voice, but no more than that. 

The bitterness of his predicament threatened to overwhelm him — he would never be equal to his father now. He would die and be forgotten, an unmarried and childless wreck. A terrible example to his brothers and sisters. A failure… 

Anthony woke with a start. It was deep into the night and he fancied he heard the sounds of the church bell. Some force compelled him to quit his bed, struggling as he did so against the heavy fall of blankets. He was dressed in but his nightshirt and robe, as he wandered out of his room and into the sleeping house. He heard it then: the sound of a coach rolling down the lane. 

Anthony scrambled towards the great hall, ignoring the sounds of a servant who called for him to stop. He was frantic — he must see the coach, see the phantom horseman who had come for him and not his father. 

He threw open the door and stumbled out into the chill night air. It was lightly raining and there were footmen scrambling to light the lanterns. A tall, dark figure alighted from the carriage. It was not the antique coach and four of legend, but a fashionable vehicle of current age. 

The figure resolved itself into Simon — Anthony reached out for him in wonder. When their hands met, he was shocked to feel how warm Simon was, how alive. 

“Brother!” cried an achingly familiar voice from behind Simon. Anthony looked past him and saw Daphne rushing towards him. He could resist it no longer. He greeted both of them kindly — his beloved friend and his beloved sister — and pressed a final kiss on Daphne’s sweetly curved lips. Then he crumpled into Simon’s arms and knew no more. 

*

As Anthony’s illness worsened, his mind grew sharper. He instructed Benedict to send for his solicitor. When he had received his inheritance, he had been obliged to make a will. But now, he had more to consider, more obligations to see through. Simon and Daphne’s child, of course, would inherit a dukedom, but Anthony regretted that he would never see him. 

The grief felt by his family was immense, he knew. There was a great deal to say to them, assurances that he loved them all. With Benedict sitting vigil at his bedside, it was difficult to meet his gaze. “I hope you will still be able to paint in your free time,” he croaked out and saw his brother’s face crumple in grief. 

“You are — impossible,” Benedict said, his voice shaking. “My whole life, I’ve followed you. How can I go ahead?” 

“You will,” Anthony said. He sighed and pressed his head against his pillow. He felt incredibly tired. “I have no doubt you will do better than I ever did. Things are always easier for you.” 

“Because _you_ —” Benedict stood up abruptly. “I will not argue with you, Brother.” 

“Very good. Send Simon and Daphne in. Don’t listen in and don’t let the others do it either. I’m serious, Benedict. I trust you — be worthy of it.” 

“Yes. Fine,” Benedict said, leaving the room. 

It took a few more minutes until Simon and Daphne came in, hand in hand, and closed the door firmly behind them. Anthony pulled himself up and smiled. In the light of his room, he could see the changes the last few months had wrought upon them — but instead of the calm happiness that Anthony expected, they both looked worried and unhappy. It occurred to Anthony that he was the source of their consternation, and that could not be borne. 

He beckoned them closer. “I want to say so many things to the both of you that my mind is quite blank. The doctor says there is little hope for me and I have made my peace with it.” 

“Liar,” Daphne said bluntly. Anthony swallowed his surprize — being married and settled had certainly unloosened something in her. Her eyes were burning against the paleness of her skin. She was so lovely and Anthony regretted every instance that he had made her suffer. He reached out and took her hand, kissed her. 

“Dear Sister, first and best. I hope you can forgive me and my interference. I only ever acted out of concern for you, but you and I both know my decisions were not always the best. If you had been Lord Bridgerton, I know you would have done much better.” 

Daphne smiled even as her lips trembled. She ducked her head down for a moment before she recovered herself. “I think it is cruel for you to say this when you are dying. How can I reply?” 

“You needn’t,” Anthony assured her. He looked over to Simon, who had stepped back, giving the siblings more privacy. “Simon, please come closer.” 

“I should not be here,” Simon began to say, but Anthony shook his head. 

“I wanted to see the two of you. You were a delight and a good friend, Simon.” 

“A friend to all is a friend to none,” Simon said, his eyes suspiciously bright. He looked away for a moment and Anthony smiled wanly. 

“You know that isn’t true. I leave my troublesome family to you — they are fractious and loud and you aren’t used to it yet. But they will teach you everything you need to know about family — they will be good to you, Simon.” 

“I know,” Simon said, his voice broken. “I have never wanted anything more.” 

“Stay with us, Anthony,” Daphne said, touching his hot face. “We love you so.” 

Anthony was happy. If he died now, he would be satisfied. Instead, he fell asleep and was insensible for a long while. When he woke again, he was still breathing. Idly, he wondered why death was taking so long. 

Did he again hear the distant sound of a coach driving down the gravel lane? He could hear the sound of horses, the shouts of the coachman. He closed his eyes and sighed. 


	5. Finished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony finds out.

Anthony did not die, but his recovery was long enough that he missed the opening of the new season. The Bridgertons absented themselves from the festivities long enough to draw comment. Lady Whistledown was merciless in her commentary: 

“ _This Author has never believed that the country offers much in the way of health and safety, and after a dangerous turn this summer, perhaps the redoubtable Lord Bridgerton will agree with me. A little bird tells me that the viscount flirted with poetics and long walks in the rain and nearly died as a result. Perhaps now he will do well to leave words to those of us who can wield them better. However, the Lord’s sudden recovery will be a relief to his Brother —”_

Anthony crumpled the pamphlet with a sigh and gave it over to Eloise, who carefully pressed it neat again. 

“What a vexing creature Lady Whistledown is,” Anthony vented. It was noon and he was deep in the bosom of his family, but at long last, he felt as though he would not mind a breath or two of fresh air. “Eloise, did you ever find out who she was?” 

“No,” Eloise said. She had been trying to make something of her embroidery all afternoon, and seemed relieved to leave it behind in order to answer Anthony’s question. “Those I suspected weren’t the right ones at all.” 

“I have no doubt she’s a young malcontent, used to being ignored and overlooked,” Anthony said, picking up Eloise’s embroidery and frowning at it. He had yet to see a more unhappy bouquet of roses. 

“Benedict thinks she is an older woman — he has floated the possibility that she is Lady Danbury,” Eloise said. As if summoned by the mention of his name, Benedict came in, eating a scone. He drifted over to the sofa where Anthony and Eloise were seated and squeezed in between them. He was serenely indifferent to both Anthony’s glare and Eloise’s accusation that he had grown fatter that year. 

“What are you talking about?” Benedict said at last. 

“What else do we ever talk about?” Anthony groused. “The identity of the wretched Whistledown, of course.” 

“It’s Lady Danbury.” 

“It cannot be,” Anthony said, and Eloise agreed with him.

“Lady Danbury says what she thinks without any fear of censure,” said Eloise. “Very different than Lady Whistledown, who has much more to lose.” 

“Eloise, she must be someone we know, someone in our confidence,” said Anthony. “How else would she know — well, the source of my illness?” 

“Well, she did not get it from me,” Eloise declared. “Besides, it’s useless to be paranoid. All I ever write to is Penelope. And all she wants to know is if Colin is returning or not.” 

“Is he?” Anthony said and yawned. The mail came in — most of the letters were for Anthony, but there were quite a few for Benedict, who sighed as he flipped through them. 

“You would not believe the letters I received when you were ill and I was thought to be the presumptive viscount. It was positively ghoulish,” Benedict said, frowning. 

“You should send me a list of the most enthusiastic ones, so I may call on them soon,” Anthony said lightly. 

“Only you could make social calls an instrument of vengeance,” Eloise said. She examined the Whistledown for the last time and sighed. “I hope you won’t be vexed at me for saying I am glad we were able to skip the season.” 

“You will have to debut one of these days, you know,” Benedict said, not unsympathetically. Eloise glared at him. 

Anthony mused aloud, “Between everything that’s happened and A—’s birth, I think we have enough to deal with without throwing Eloise’s debut into society into the mix, the horror that it will be.” 

“If I had my say, I would never have to do it,” Eloise said fervently. 

“I know, pet,” Anthony replied. “In a better world, you needn’t.” 

“In _this_ world, you could give me my dowry outright so I could do with it what I see fit,” Eloise replied. Anthony was astonished — the thought had simply never occurred to him before. He shot a look over at Benedict, who shrugged. 

Anthony said wonderingly, “What would you do with it?” 

“Get an education,” was Eloise’s prompt reply. “I want to go to university.” 

“There is no university in Britain that would accept a young lady,” Benedict said, wincing. “You are brave and bold, dear Sister, but could you be the first of the very first?” 

“Britain is not the only place in the world. The University of Bologna accepts women.” 

“You don’t know a word of Italian,” Anthony pointed out. 

“I know Latin and I know French,” Eloise declared. “I can make do.” 

“Well, I will consider it,” Anthony said. Eloise sprang up from the sofa and graced the both of them with a sunny smile, and left them there to contemplate new horizons alone. 

*

Simon sighed and leaned against his chair. He frowned, slightly, and said, “Did I tell you, Anthony, that I remembered why I knew about Millais?” 

“Oh, I don’t need to know,” Anthony replied. They were both occupied in Simon’s study in Hastings House, warming their feet near the fire and smoking their pipes. “I suppose it was during your time on the Continent.”

“He was with a woman he said was his sister. She was set to marry an elderly lord when somehow the engagement was broken — perhaps by the intervention of his heirs? The two were amusing enough, but such naked fortune hunting is … a bit gauche.”

“I agree!” Anthony said with enthusiasm. He blew a smoke ring towards Simon, who waved it away. 

Simon raised a brow. “Of course, that is easy enough to say with the two of us, who are blessed with fortunes already hunted for us.” 

“I wonder where they are now,” Anthony mused. He sat up straight and stretched. What Anthony didn’t tell Simon was that he knew exactly where Sir Arthur and Fenella were now. After a few discreet inquiries, he’d found their lodgings in London and sent them the set of cups to go with the bowl. In the letter accompanying the cups, he had written: _Sir, you have forgotten something in Kent._

Simon shot him a quizzical glance but stopped Anthony before he could say anymore. “The hour grows late, I think we should retire.” 

He stood, a smooth gesture that gave lie to any assumption that he could be tired. Anthony followed behind him obediently enough to the sleeping chamber he shared with Daphne. 

Daphne was there, having completed her nightly toilette. She greeted them sweetly with a kiss, though with Anthony, she included a pinch as well. 

Anthony took it well and knew he deserved it. Despite his initial distress at being forced to confess his deepest feelings to the two people he was most anxious to impress, he had found the experience to be rewarding in the long run. When Simon kissed him, it was a pleasure and delight. Both he and Daphne fell upon him with great eagerness.

Having the love of two good people, Anthony knew, was a far greater gift than he could have ever deserved. And yet, he had it and he was thankful for it and would be for however long he lived.


End file.
